


Mended—A Torn Sequel

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Stumbling [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: Birthday, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Part of him agrees with her. Part of him knows it's the right thing. It's the grown-up thing not to confuse the issue by lingering in the strange state they began with half-asleep kisses and dead-to-the-world rest at last, wrapped around each other in the no-man's land between his bed and the one she'd occupied out of necessity."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A sequel to Torn, which takes place during the events of Boom! (2 x 18). This is probably a 3-shot?

 

 

"Man is born broken.

He lives by mending."

— Eugene O'Neill

* * *

 

He understands what she's doing. He even understands _why_ without her having to say. Of course, some of it's obvious. And some of it she's told him.

Her dad.

Of _course_ she'd have gone to her dad under any other circumstances, and of _course_ he needs her to come be with him now. He needs the luxury of cracking open the silent or not-so-silent door to watch her sleep. To watch her boringly, uneventfully sleep, safe under his roof, and of _course_ she wants to give that to him.

Castle understands that part of it all too well. He knows the day _he_ won't have that luxury is coming all too soon, and he'd never dream of begrudging it to either of them now. Not Beckett, not her dad.

But he understands the other part of what she's doing, too. The part that has to do with him. With _them._ He really does understand, even though it's not exactly obvious, and even though she hasn't told him in so many words. Just enough that he knows she's not running. That they're not pretending there isn't a _them_. A fragile, stumbling beginning, anyway. What she's given him—what she _has_ said—is enough for that.

Part of him agrees with her. Part of him knows it's the right thing. It's the grown-up thing not to confuse the issue by lingering in the strange state they began with half-asleep kisses and dead-to-the-world rest at last, wrapped around each other in the no-man's land between his bed and the one she'd occupied out of necessity.

Part of him wants the same thing. A beginning for them that's free of fear. Free of loss and back-of-the-mind whispers that he'd never have kissed her—he'd never have had the chance—if it weren't for a mad man.

But part of him is wary, too. Of himself. Of her. Of the fact that they're both inclined to skim the surface of this thing between them. That they're both more comfortable with innuendo than admission of fault or feeling. Admission of want or need.

Part of him doesn't trust _either_ of them to be brave. Or just . . . present. _Aware_ that, _yes,_ her going to her dad, her moving forward and getting established in her own place, is what she needs to do. And it's the right way—the grown up way—for them to make a start, but they have to actually _do_ that. Make a start.

But it's dangerous, too. Because with every day he tells himself she doesn't need any more pressure right now might all too easily be another day she retreats. Another day she tells herself that he must be sorry for that middle-of-the-night kiss. That they both should be sorry, because emotions were running high and it didn't really mean anything.

And without either of them wanting to let it—and she's given him enough to know that neither of them wants to let it—this might slip away. This fragile, stumbling beginning, might slip away to nothing, and they might fall back into what's easy. They might both decide without deciding that there _isn't_ a them. Not really.

They might, but he's not going to let that happen.

* * *

 

She's harried the next morning. Out of sorts and bristling, even when hands her coffee. _Especially_ when he hands her coffee, maybe, and he's about to back off. It's what he'd usually do. Give her some space. Wait for her to call out for him, testy as though he'd been shirking, because that's her version of _sorry_ and his version of _I'm here_.

But he's wary of _usually,_ so he plants his feet.

"Things ok at your dad's?"

"Fine."

She's not quite snapping at him, but only just. He's on the verge of retreating. On the verge of heading back to the safe confines of _usually_ when she mumbles something that has an out-of-sorts apology underneath. It takes him a second to decipher the words.

"He only has _decaf_?"

It comes out a scandalized gasp. It's sincere enough on his part. Heartfelt, but she swats at him.

"Don't you _dare_ make fun, Castle."

"Make fun?" He holds his hands up. "I'm in fear for my life here. The lives of all these good people!"

She cracks the tiniest of smiles and leans back in her chair, taking small, careful pulls at the hot drink. Her shoulders descend by inches. He watches the crease of the caffeine headache between her brows dissipate and tries again.

"How were things, really?" he asks in a low voice. "Crimes against coffee notwithstanding."

She looks like she'd rather not answer. Like she'd rather push it aside. But she looks at the coffee. She looks at him and he thinks she understands. What _he's_ doing and why. He thinks she understands that he's wary of _usually_ , and she is, too.

"Not exactly fine." She pushes the hair back from her forehead and leans hard on her palm, her elbow planted on the desk. "It takes forever to get out there, and I got out of _here_ late . . ."

He winces. All too aware that he's the one who kept her last. "Sorry," he says, though he's not entirely. He's not at _all_ sorry for the lingering embrace. Not sorry for the feel of her pulse skipping and fluttering under his cheek.

"No. Castle, not that's not . . ." She covers his hand with hers, then pulls it back. The bullpen is too busy to range quite that far afield from usually, but a spark leaps from her skin to his, even so. "He just . . . he thought I'd make it for dinner, even though I never said . . ." Her face shifts. Her whole body takes on the hunched, sullen lines of the teenager she must have been. "He _scolded_ me, like he'd caught me breaking curfew, and I swear to _God_ , Castle, if you laugh, I am going to pour this latté in your lap."

There's some definite twitching at the corners of his mouth, but the same is true of hers. "You realize that's the least convincing threat you've ever made?"

"You're right," she says, considering. "Give me your cappuccino."

"Too late." He drains the last of it and pitches the empty cup into the trash with a flourish. "Make your own boiling oil."

She scowls. "Sounds like a lot of work."

"You'll make it for dinner tonight?" It's the wrong question. A miscalculation, and he knows it as she pulls things out of her bag and sets them out. A neat arrangement on her desk and a sudden vision of her day unfolding before him. A million things to do and and this on top of it all. Work.

"I don't _know,_ Castle." She sighs, reaching for her usual, slightly exasperated tone. Not quite getting there. "I have all these things I have to do over lunch. They're re-keying the new place and the manager isn't on site. I don't even know where I have to pick those up or when. And the insurance company needs original signatures on a dozen things and if I don't get those over before the weekend . . ." She trails off, not quite catching her breath. She's overwhelmed. "And _that's_ if we don't catch a body."

"Let me help."

She seems surprised by the quiet offer. He doesn't blame her. He's surprised, too. He wants to sweep in. He wants to solve it all and throw money at it and to tell her to stop being silly and just come _home_ with him and they'll have her dad over or whatever. He wants to make some grand gesture, but instead he reaches out tentatively for the notebook she's just flipped open. He touches the page, filled top to bottom with her neat handwriting.

"There's half a dozen things I can knock off here." He looks up at her, uncertain. "Let me . . . let me take care of a few of them."

"And . . ." She has trouble finding her voice. Trouble getting a handle on how to this version of them goes. He knows the feeling. "And if we _do_ catch a body?"

"Well then . . ." He feels the smile break over his face. Wide and too big, but hers is, too, and maybe it's ok. "I'll drop everything and rush back to offer my crime-solving expertise. But until then . . ." He nods at the list again.

"Until then." She takes up a pen and pulls the list toward her. The tip hovers over the page. Her hair falls around her face. She sweeps it back. She tips her chin to the side to meet his eyes. "Thanks, Castle," she says, and it's not just about the offer. It's another step. A stumbling beginning that's a little less fragile. "Thank you."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She doesn't regret taking him up on it. Not really, even when he decides he has to make a production of it. Even when he's grabbing her phone and downloading some app for sharing lists. Adding her email to his account."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of this sequel to Torn, which takes place during the events of Boom! (2 x 18). Still looking like a 3-shot, though this chapter got long

 

 

She doesn't regret taking him up on it. Not really, even when he decides he has to make a production of it. Even when he's grabbing her phone and downloading some app for sharing lists. Adding her email to his account.

"Crisper cemetery duty? Bed time story?" Her eyebrows shoot up. He makes a dive for the phone, but she holds it high.

"Um. That's . . . our weekly household list . . ." He gives up on her phone and turns his attention to the settings on his own version. "There's got to be a way to selectively . . ."

"It's fine, Castle." She swipes away from the list and holds up the screen for him to see. "I won't snoop."

"You won't, will you?" He gives her a sharp look, then goes back to his phone, shaking his head. "Weirdest detective ever."

He taps out the whole list. Top to bottom, his fingers flying, her protests going unheard. "You don't have to . . . not all . . . _Castle!"_

"I know." He closes his hand around her phone. He brings his own next to it, showing her the list, mirrored from one screen to the other. "I don't have to do all of it. I won't try. But you'll be able to see." He taps the box next to one item. A check mark winks into existence. Side by side on his phone and hers. "And if you get time to take care of something" — he unchecks the box — "I'll know I don't need to, ok?" He ducks to find her eyes. "Ok, Kate?"

And he's asking. He's really asking so carefully, trying _not_ to run roughshod and fix everything, and she feels a little of the knot inside unwind. She doesn't regret anything.

"Yeah. Ok, Castle." She presses the button on her own phone, blacking out the screen and leaving it to him. "Ok."

* * *

 

It's a weird day on multiple levels. The calm after the storm, though she's constantly moving. Constantly doing and confirming and repeating. It feels like calm, but only in contrast to the days before. On top of everything—on top of a job that doesn't stop just because a serial killer happened to fixate on her—the Feds love their paperwork. Tedious, endless, almost-but-not-quite identical forms.

It's hard to get any of it done. Hard to focus and remember what she's already filled out and what she hasn't when she's fielding another and another and another awkward, backhanded expression of concern. Sympathy. _Guess-it-doesn't-suck-that-you're-not-dead_ sentiment, because cops aren't great at that.

She thinks about him. About _Naked Heat_ and the way he captured exactly this. How he'd crystalized something she'd never put together. The bad jokes and off-handed _all-in-a-day's-work_ attitude. The fierce loyalty between the lines. She thinks about the strange ways he knows her already and the ways he doesn't. _Not yet,_ says a giddy voice inside, and she presses her lips together and tries to focus on paperwork.

He pesters her from afar, of course. He texts her character sketches of one person after another. A homeless man wearing a nun's habit.

_He'd be a red herring, though. The bereaved simple-minded brother whose psyche was fractured for good when he found her body on the park bench where they met every Saturday._

A young guy in an expensive suit he doesn't like the look of.

_Up to no good: What's a guy with money like that doing on the 1 train at ten in the morning?_

She can't resist that one. She fires back.

_I dunno, Castle, what are_ you _doing on the 1 train at ten in the morning?_

The reply is immediate.

_Trying to impress a girl._

A few seconds later.

_Is it working?_

Her head whips around. She's sure she's caught. Sure someone must see her blushing bright and fighting against the kind of smile that'd put her gawky teenage self to shame, but she's alone. For the moment she's miraculously alone. She taps at the phone, shy and bold at once. Sure of herself and second guessing.

_Maybe . . . Let's see some check marks._

* * *

 

It goes on like that all morning. She plugs away at paperwork. Shuts the phone away in the drawer and pulls it out like a little reward system when she finishes a chunk and another chunk.

He doesn't disappoint. He sends her selfies and screencaps of his high scores on games she's never heard of. He snaps tight-framed pictures of tiny parts of odd landmarks and tells her to guess where he is.

She does guess a couple of times, though they fly in, too fast and furious for her to keep up. She's right when she does. She's always right.

She weathers one incident interview and it's not so bad, with Montgomery at her back..

"That was the practice round, Detective," Montgomery warns. "Bigger guns this afternoon and worse in the morning." He smiles, then, lightening the moment. "Keep your cool just like that, though, and this'll be behind you by the weekend."

She thanks him again and sinks into her desk chair. She'd been worried. She's just realizing it now. After the fact, when her spine pops and her ribs rise with the first full-on breath she's really drawn today. She slides open the desk drawer and fumbles the phone toward her. She drags a furtive thumb up the screen.

She finds half a dozen things, but the most recent is another guessing game. A close-up of some outdoor architectural element. Gorgeous bronze scrollwork that looks like a _B_ resting on its back. She's been following the check marks as they appear on the list to work out what he's near. From there, it's a simple task to figure out what nearby would most likely catch his eye.

It's been a simple task so far, but this one has her stumped. She pulls up Google street view for a few of the destinations on the list and mentally ticks through the things he'd already gotten to before she went into the closed-door meeting. She makes an educated guess. Twenty seconds later, her desk phone rings.

_"You're cheating. I don't know how, but you are."_

"Cop," she says, trying not to smile as hard as lips seem to want to. "I know the mean streets."

_"Must be why you always get trapped in the maze of one-ways when you drive me home._

_"One_ time, Castle. That was _one_ time. And it was your fault for distracting me." She jumps as Velasquez drops a sheaf of file folders over her shoulder and on to the desk. "Speaking of distraction . . ."

_"No lunch for you, then?"_

"Lunch?" It's her second surprise in as many seconds. She checks her watch, then flicks the screen of her cell when she can't quite believe what it says. He's right, though. It's long since going on lunch time, even or her. "I didn't realize . . ." She brings up the list app, her chest going tight when she realizes she's gotten _nothing_ done. But she sees the checkmarks, then. Things rearranging themselves. "Castle. The list. This is . . . almost done."

_"Not really,"_ he says, sounding like his mind is on something else. The sync wheel spins and she watches items leap frog each other as he rearranges them. By geography or priority or who knows what method there might be to his madness. _"But I think I have time to swing by with lunch."_

"No. Don't. After everything, you don't have to." She feels her face go red. A squirming sensation inside that's guilt, but no small amount of pleasure, too. Relief. "You've already . . ."

_"Look. I know you have your heart set on vending machine food."_ His voice fades out and in like he's swapping the phone from hand to hand. _"But_ I _need sustenance . . ."_

She loses the last of what he says. Esposito is holding one hand high, snapping to catch her attention. He's scrawling something on a pad with his other hand, his neck at an awkward angle to wedge the handset between cheek and shoulder.

"Sorry, Castle." She launches into the same awkward dance as Esposito, reaching down for the bottom drawer and giving herself a pat down to make sure she's good to go. "Looks like I don't even have time for vending machine lunch."

_"A body?"_ He's pulled two ways. She can hear it in his voice. _"Where?"_ he asks hopefully.

She reads the address off the paper Esposito shoves under her nose. It's miles from him, with the precinct in between. "What do we know, Espo?" She shifts the phone so the mouthpiece faces out.

"Hispanic female vic, late twenties. Male, same, spotted feeling by a black-and-white just pulling up in response to neighbor complaints about a domestic dispute . . ."

_"Sounds . . . straightforward."_ Castle's voice is sullen in her other ear. Like a kid owning up and not happy about it.

She can't help but laugh. She waves Ryan and Esposito toward the elevator with a _be right there_ gesture as she gathers her things, abusing the phone cord along the way. "Not exciting enough to tear you away from a to-do list?"

_"You'll be done by the time I make it all the way up to the scene."_ She hears a clang in the background like he might actually be kicking something.

"You're not coming?" She doesn't mean it to sound so shocked. So accusing, but she's surprised. Disappointed, if she lets herself think about it. And . . . touched _. Impressed,_ she thinks, smiling to herself. "You're skipping a murder?"

_For me?_ She doesn't add that. It's too strange in too many ways, but she hears his grin down the line. Feels her own still tugging at her cheeks.

_"Only a really boring one,"_ he says, adding hastily, _"You'll call me if it gets good?"_

"I'll call you even if it doesn't get good." She hears her name. Esposito sounding impatient. Her head swivels to the elevator. It's halfway full and Ryan's looking sheepish as he holds the door. "I have to . . . Castle . . ."

_"Go."_ She can picture him squaring his shoulders. Bearing up. _"Catch me a bad guy, Beckett."_

"I will." She stretches the cord as far as she can. Going and not going. "And I'll call. Later. I'll call, Castle."

_"Later,"_ he says, and she can still hear the smile.

* * *

 

It's a lot later. Even without endless running around and a case that never gets much more interesting than the body drop itself promised, she's pushing it when she finally leaves the precinct. She makes it to her dad's for dinner and somehow the second, late afternoon incident interview winds up being a blessing.

It had gone well, thanks in no small part to well-made, to-the-point statements from Montgomery and Ryan and Esposito. Another from Jordan Shaw that had managed to minimize the going-rogue aspects of their involvement—hers and Castle's—and make some of her lucky, split-second guesses sound calculated.

Her dad is interested in the ins and outs of it. Two different levels of law enforcement with warring interests, each learning how to play well with others. It's his kind of thing and they manage to talk mostly around the _what_ s and _wherefore_ s of Scott Dunn wanting to kill her.

And at some point they just talk. They linger over plates they've long since picked clean, and it's the kind of quiet conversation they should both try to make more time for. They clear the table put the kitchen to rights side-by-side. It's companionable. It's good, and still, she's exhausted by the end of it. Crawling into bed with the phone in her hand.

_"You called!"_ He answers on the first ring without even saying her name.

She's a little taken aback. A little hurt by how surprised he sounds. "I said I would."

" _And you're a woman of your word,"_ he says quickly. _"And I'm glad. It's just late, that's all. You must be tired."_

"Not that tired." A yawn creeps in at the end, ruining her stubborn answer.

He laughs, of course. _"Not a snoop. Terrible liar. Like I said. Weirdest detective ever."_

_Snoop._ It reminds her that she hasn't looked at the list in hours. Hasn't made any kind of plan for the next day and how she's going to accomplish everything. She taps the screen to put him on speaker and navigates to the app. "Castle, thank you for . . ." She trails off, staring. " _Everything?"_

_"Not quite,"_ he says, downplaying it. _"But I made a dent."_

"More than a dent." She runs her thumb down the long column of checkmarks. "The rest of this can probably wait for the weekend. Most of these, anyway." Her breath rushes out of her. She feels heavy and relieved on the bed. "Thank you," she says again. It's inadequate. Wholly inadequate, but she can't think what else to say.

" _Don't thank me yet."_ She hears him take breath. Bearing up, just like earlier. _"There's a problem with the keys to the new place."_

"Keys. You actually got what's his name to call you back?" She's impressed and working on a new wave of worry at the same time.

_"Bruno, if you can believe it. And I did_ better _than getting him to call me back_. _"_ He sounds proud of himself, but it doesn't last. _"I pinned him down and got him to meet me, but it looks like they used the wrong blank for the door to the apartment. And the one for the door from the street to the lobby sticks pretty bad . . ."_

"Shit." She doesn't mean for it to slip out. She doesn't mean to sound ungrateful, but it's a domino effect. Without the keys, she can't do any of the things left on the list. Without the keys, she's stuck _here_ for another night, and . . . "It's . . . sorry, Castle. Thank you. Again. I can . . . I'll figure something out . . ."

_"You don't . . ."_ He breaks off. Uncomfortable all of a sudden. _"I kind of read Bruno the riot act."_

She laughs, picturing it. "Well, at least you weren't armed."

_"Armed! You have such an unfair advantage!"_ He's going along. Laughing, too, but there's still something awkward in it. A confession he hasn't made. _"But I . . . I was kind of in the moment and I kind of yelled until he said he'd meet me with the new ones."_

"Ok," she frowns, still not getting it. "Where and when? I'll just . . ."

_"That's . . . He's kind of a weasel. Swore the only time he could make it was 10:30. And you've got . . ."_

She can hear his teeth grit. He's unreasonably irritated by the round-and-round of the incident interviews. Unreasonably annoyed that he was the one to take the shot and it's still an _internal_ matter. And unreasonably worried that he can't be there to back her, but there's nothing for it. It's not like she can reschedule.

"Shit," she says again. "Sorry. Not you. You've done _so_ much, I'm just . . . I just want to be settled. I'll figure it out."

_"I can still get them."_ He's treading on eggshells. Trying not to overstep, but something else, too. Something he's . . . embarrassed about? Avoiding anyway. _"But I have a thing tomorrow afternoon. And it's . . . Mother-related, so it's bound to turn into a production. Hand off could be a problem."_ She hears him shifting, walking and keys clacking. _"I could messenger them, but I don't know if you're comfortable . . . I mean body on the doorstep one night, things exploding the next. You might want to take security a little more seriously . . ."_

"Dinner." She blurts it out, suddenly feeling bold. Grateful and wanting to do _something,_ however small, to thank him. But bold, too. About them. _This_. "You could come to dinner. I mean it'd have to be take out. Because I don't actually own any . . . Or we could go out. Find some place . . . If you're free . . ." He's silent on the other end. Totally silent. She stumbles. "I mean if you're done with your . . . If you want to . . . "

_"I want to!"_ It's his turn to he was stuck in spinning beach ball mode a minute, and maybe he was. _"Yes, Beckett. Kate. I'd love . . . I'd love to come to dinner. Or go to dinner."_ The phone goes quiet, like he's pressing his hand over the mouthpiece, cursing to himself. _"Dinner. Yes. Dinner would be great."_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, thanks for reading. Hopefully the last chapter will be up in a few days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His mother slips her arm through his, and he's torn. He looks at his watch and there are hours yet. Hours before it's even possible she'll leave the precinct. Another hour at least before things even dip their toe into likely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, FFS. I was having POV trouble with the final chapter. I started writing Castle's POV, which is what I wanted it to be, and THIS came out. It is NOT, you will notice, the final chapter. So it's a four-shot. AGGGGHHH. Sorry. Sequel to Torn, which takes place during the events of Boom! (2 x 18).

 

* * *

 

He's impatient with the day. With how long it takes to get everywhere. With the weasel-y Bruno.

"Isn't she a cop?" the man asks testily when Castle insists on trying the keys for himself the third time.

"Yes, and you should see her kick in doors." He gives Bruno a blank, over-the-shoulder smile. "But I imagine it'll make work for you if she has to kick in _this_ one every night. So let's just make sure they work, shall we?"

He's impatient with himself, because he can't decide on three simple things. Bread. Salt. Wine. It's _simple_ , or it should be, but he dithers over every choice. He winds up racing in and out of five different stores and doubling back a few times until he's satisfied. Close enough to satisfied and out of time, anyway.

He's impatient with his mother, and it's really not fair. _Really_ not. He spies her through the restaurant window, having an animated conversation with a confused-looking server. Flirting probably, even though the kid can't be more than seventeen.

Sympathy propels him through the doors, and sure enough, the kid gives Castle a grateful look when his mother breaks off in the middle of whatever was making his cheeks burn to call out, "Richard! My only son. Happy . . ."

". . . don't say it." He cuts her off as he scrubs lipstick from one cheek, then the other. It's a ritual honored, and it does its work like always.

They squabble their way through the meal—Dim Sum she's talked the place into doing, even though it's a Wednesday afternoon. They talk about Chet and his annoying habits, but his endearing qualities, too.

"And it's really nothing, darling. Just a costume piece I've had for ages, but he saw I was heartbroken and took it on himself to have it fixed."

Her cheeks pink as she tells the story. A white rose and breakfast in bed. A cheap bracelet on a bed of velvet in an upscale jeweler's box. Years fall away from her face. From her sharp, ready gaze, and he sees Alexis in her. He thinks about love and family and Kate, though he's trying hard to put her out of his mind right now. His heart bangs painfully against his ribs, yearning and afraid. _Terribly_ afraid.

She sees it. His mother sees it, and he tries brace himself. Tries to shake himself back to neutral. Indifferent, but the moment passes. For once she lets it pass.

* * *

 

"And what's next in our grand adventure."

His mother slips her arm through his, and he's torn. He looks at his watch and there are hours yet. Hours before it's even possible she'll leave the precinct. Another hour at least before things even dip their toe into likely.

"I'm supposed to pick," he says absently, not feeling up to it at all. Not feeling up to _anything_ other than ticking off seconds and minutes and hours until _likely_. Or _even possible._ He'd settle for that.

"You _are_ supposed to pick. It's traditional." She unlinks their elbows, swinging around to face him. "However"—she reaches out to tap the bag swinging from his free hand—bread, salt, wine, though she hasn't asked— "as you have _other_ things on your mind, I will let you off the hook, just this once." She raises an index finger. "And so, we shop."

It's just right, strangely enough. The noise and confusion of Canal blends with his mother's running commentary on the quality of the knock-off handbags. He weighs in, now and then. Shaking his head and grimacing when she holds up something awful. Giving a non-committal nod less often when it's not too bad.

He accumulates strange, terrible candy to torture Alexis with. Hard, prune-flavored disks like sour slate on his tongue. Something sweet and milky wrapped in an odd, supposedly edible paper that glues the inside of his cheek to his teeth when it melts. Tiny gelatinous ears of corn that are too weird not to try, though he regrets it immediately. They both regret it.

They sip coffee on a bench, trying to banish the taste. They argue about where to get someone to snap a photo of the two of them. Another ritual, the photo and the argument, both.

"But, darling, the arch is right here"—she makes a vague gesture in the direction of the statue of Lin Zexu—"and this gentleman will do quite as well as Confucius."

"Yes, nineteenth century bureaucrat, timeless philosopher," he grumbles, but she's pulling him to his feet. "I bet they get mistaken for each other all the time."

She ignores him, intent on flagging down some unsuspecting passerby. A woman stops. It's surprising enough, given their bickering and the fact that seconds ago, she'd been working the head-down, _don't-bother-me_ gait of the busy New Yorker. But now she's smiling. Directing them and moving around to get different views in the background.

"Thanks. Thanks very much."

He smiles back, trying not to snatch as he reaches for his phone. Startling when the woman's fingers close around his wrist and she steps close. His mother rescues him.

"Points to you for effort, dear," she says, not unkindly, as she plucks the phone from between the two of them and stands fast until the woman's hand drops. "But he's quite hopeless at the moment. Head over heels for the most unlikely girl in the world."

It's awkward. It's as awkward as it's possible for a moment to be.

* * *

 

They're silent after that. Distant in a way he's vaguely sorry about. This is their day. Something they've set aside for years and years, honoring it even when things were strained between them, and it's as if he's kicking at it. Denting the thing that he always heaves a sigh about, like it's something to endure, but it's important to both of them and he _is_ sorry, but he's worried too. Worried what will happen if he's the one to break the silence. Worried what will come out of his mouth.

So they move on. She steers them toward Confucius anyway. She takes a picture of him alone. A conciliatory gesture and they laugh over it. A new ritual, maybe, and he's glad about that. Proud, as ever, that their relationship, whatever else it might be, is resilient. Tough.

He has a strange urge to thank her for it. He thinks of Kate and the last year. All the times already that he might have walked away. Chosen something easier or settled for less than what he wants. What he's wanted from practically the beginning, though he's called it other things along the way and tried to explain his way out of it, but here he is. Here _they_ are, or at least might be, and something makes him want to thank his mother for it.

But she's moved on. The moment's already evaporated and she has her nose in a stall. A two-wheeled cart, really, with doors that open up. His mother is deep in conversation with the old Chinese woman who's only just set up there. As deep as a conversation can be when it consists of grunted numbers and sharp gestures punctuated with sullen monosyllables contributed by a very bored twelve-year-old.

Castle wanders nearer, pulled in by the scene in spite of himself. In spite of his mind being a mile or more across town. The kid—he must be the woman's grandson—has an _anywhere-but-here_ look about him, his worn Chuck Taylors and sagging jeans an amusing contrast to the woman's stiff, traditional dress. His accent is pure New York.

"Good luck or something." He rolls his eyes. "I don't know." He lapses into rapid-fire Cantonese, pointing. "The trunk and the"—he gropes for the word—"tusk thingies. When they point up. She says it's good luck."

"Richard, look! Aren't they adorable?"

His mother's hand runs along a lower shelf that runs to creamy white with gold and carnelian rugs draped over their backs. They're showy, bleeding into gaudy in one or two cases, and not at all what draws his eye. He drifts instead to the far side of things. To a high-up shelf with just a few that have a forgotten look about them.

"More expensive." He looks down, surprised to find the kid tagging along. "Jade. One piece. She says no one wants them."

"I do," he says quickly. "This one."

He reaches without hesitation for the one he knows is right. _Jade_. It's surprising. Not the milky, translucent color he usually associates with the word. This is dark and mottled with gorgeous mossy veins that give the illusion of movement to the delicate fan of each ear and impart a sturdiness— _power_ and a solid kind of grace—to the blocky outline of the elephant's body. The trunk is curled high, the end coming to rest between wide-set eyes, curiously expressive, though they're nothing more than a pair of curved, intersecting lines.

"Perfect." He feels his mother's hand, sudden on his shoulder. Her her cheek almost brushing his. "Oh, Richard. That one's just perfect for her."

* * *

 

He expects her to pry after that. After the woman slips the elephant into a fiery satin bag and he sets it carefully alongside the things he already with him. Bread, salt, and wine, and now this companion, odd and perfect at once.

But she fills the walk with nothing chatter. She talks about Alexis and chides him for keeping too close an eye on this and ignoring that. She steers so well clear of everything she must be _dying_ to grill him about that things come out the other side.

"We're having dinner." He practically shouts it, cutting in the middle of whatever she was on about. Shoes or something.

"Dinner," she says, giving him a mock-grim look. "No wonder you're terrified."

"I am _not_ terrified." The lie is thick in his mouth. "Why would I be terrified?"

"Hmmm. Where shall I start?" She makes a fist with one hand, raising a single finger on the other, as though she's about to start ticking off points.

"Don't. Don't start." He slaps at her hand. "Please."

"As you wish." She purses her lips and lifts her chin, the picture of silent compliance.

He makes it five steps. " _Unlikely?_ What's _unlikely_ about it? She's smart and she's _hot_ and . . ."

". . . and challenging and not _nearly_ as charmed by you as you like women to be." She stops. She tugs him by the sleeve out of the flow of foot traffic. "Richard, it was an observation, not an insult."

"But it is unlikely." He knocks his head back against brick. " _We're_ unlikely."

" _Unlikely_ is not impossible, kiddo." She tugs his chin down to make him look at her. "You care about her. And she cares about you. Enough to make fools out of both of you. And if the two of you have one thing in common, it's that you _hate_ more than anything to feel like a fool. Of course you're terrified."

"Thanks, Mother," he deadpans. "Great pep talk."

"Hey, you want someone to blow smoke up your skirt, you go to Alexis." He laughs, a little miserably, and she pats his cheek. "And ask yourself this: How has _likely_ worked out for you anyway?"

He turns, ducking away. He thinks about Gina. Meredith. Both of them likely in such different ways. He thinks about the kind of women he stumbles across—stumbles _past_ very nearly—in the one part of his life he's left this to for years. Likely candidates for a limited time, and she's nothing like any of them. Nothing at all like any of them.

"You know you're not making any sense, right?" He slings an arm around her shoulders and sets them walking again. "Like _no_ sense whatsoever."

"Then who better to advise you on matters of the heart?" she asks as she falls in step beside him. " 'Cause if there's anything in this world that makes less sense than love, I've yet to come across it."

He looks at his watch. It's hours still until _even possible_ , and he knows she has a point.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aggggh. Seriously. Final chapter soon. Promise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Work is endless. It's awful feeling, though it shouldn't be. It really isn't when she stops to rub at the headache she's carrying behind her eyes and adds it all up. It's just the death of a thousand cuts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Mended, Ch. 4
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: Does this look like a final chapter? No, it does not. For it IS not. The final chapter is written. I have to decide tomorrow which parts of it I hate least and then that is IT. Five-shot., horrible thing. Sequel to Torn, which takes place during the events of Boom! (2 x 18).

 

* * *

 

Her dad has learned his lesson. He's secured a small bag of the real stuff and managed to dig out an ancient, one-cup pour-over rig. He tells her to sit and makes breakfast, even though he knows she never eats it. Not anymore. But he fusses a little. As much as his quiet ways will let him fuss, anyway, and she doesn't realize until it's fine—until he's lifting a box on to the counter and it's a jumble of kitchen odds and ends, some linens and the crochet afghan that used to be at the foot of her bed—that she's been bracing for it all to go wrong.

"Katie," he chides her even as he's wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "It's serving spoons and juice glasses. Nothing to cry over."

"I'm _not_ ," she says, her fingers tighten around one thing after another she remembers from way back. "I am _not_ crying."

But she is. Because it's her mom's stuff _and_ his. Things they'd each had before they got married. Things that had mingled in the kitchen drawers of her childhood. That had gotten packed away in stony silence when he'd been sober enough days in a row to do something about the fact that it was killing him to stay in the apartment they had all shared.

She _is_ crying, just a little, and his eyes are bright, too, but it's a good thing. She didn't think he'd held on to anything, and it really is just odds and ends. Still, it's a sharp point, keen and cutting between her ribs to think what might be hidden away all around her now. Here in this place she doesn't come to often enough. It's a sharp point to think of him living with things like this. Odds and ends, but it's good, too. Today—this morning—it's a good thing, even though she was bracing for it to go wrong. For a guilt trip or one of their pointless quarrels where neither of them will give. Its a good thing, even though she's leaving.

* * *

 

Work is endless. It's awful feeling, though it shouldn't be. It really isn't when she stops to rub at the headache she's carrying behind her eyes and adds it all up. It's just the death of a thousand cuts. A sheaf of familiar paperwork smack in the center of her desk, bristling with color-coded post-its where she's filled in _this_ wrong or their FBI liaison "has requested more detail." The way her second coffee tastes wrong, and the way the empty chair facing hers is unsettling for no good reason.

None of it really adds up to awful. It just feels that way, and the last incident interview—the big one—doesn't help. It's smack in the middle of her morning. Little enough time before it that even chipping away at paperwork feels impossible. And, of course, the phone rings at the exact last minute before she has to go. A body drop, and she has to let Ryan and Esposito go it alone.

And it's not that she doesn't trust them to step up. It's nothing like that at all. It's just one more damned thing that should be hers but isn't. So she claps her boys on the back.

"Don't screw this up," she says in passing.

"Not a chance," Esposito shoots back. " _You_ , try not to get fired," he adds, jerking his chin toward the conference room.

"It'd suck to have to break in a new boss." Ryan pulls on his coat and off they go.

Off she goes.

* * *

 

It's fine. The interview is _fine,_ and she knows that. There's ass-covering and posturing, but she knew there would be going in, and if she can't quite grin and bear it, she keeps her cool. It's easier at some points than others.

She has allies. Her own and Montgomery's, and that helps when she's fielding veiled and not-so-veiled digs about her unorthodox team. Veiled and not-so-veiled digs about Castle and her choices and how she goes about doing her job until she wants to yell that a maniac blew up her home; that without Castle Shaw's entire team would be dead and so would she; that sitting behind their desks in their expensive suits, they have no _idea_ what it's like to do what she and her _unorthodox_ team do—and do _well—_ every single day.

She wants the walls to ring with every single one of those truths, but she grits her teeth. She keeps her cool and feels Montgomery's steady approval at her back. She takes her lumps and presses down on the burning feeling in her stomach, and it's fine.

And when she's finally back at her desk, it's better than fine. She taps at her phone and a picture fills the screen. Two keys resting in a well-known palm. It's better than fine, and she burns a different way. She drags a thumb over the words underneath. Just three, but enough.

_Success! Still on?_

She drags a thumb over them and feels sparks traveling up and all through her. A dazzling case of nerves that paralyzes her and makes her want to race around at the same time. She stills herself. An awful effort, but she manages it long enough to keep her fingers from shaking.

_Still on._

* * *

 

He's sitting on the doorstep when she turns the corner. _Her_ doorstep, though she's having trouble thinking of it that way. It's literal, and it can't be comfortable, hunched over as he is with his knees poking up. It's a funny image. A funny feeling, and she doesn't quite believe it from the end of the block. She _still_ doesn't believe it from a few doors down or even when she's standing in front of him and he finally looks up.

"Hey!" He's a little startled. A little sheepish and breathless, but his smile is wide. "Hey, you're home!"

"Home," she echoes, and it's anything but steady. The word feels strange in her mouth. It sounds wrong in her ears and the ground feels like it's rushing toward her.

But he's on his feet. He's at her side, sliding the box of things from her dad out from under her arm. He makes a move for the duffel she's been living out of, too, but she jerks it back. He settles for wrapping her fist around the keys and closing his fingers around it.

"Home," he says again, firm and insistent. Convincing, and it tilts the world back into the proper frame. "Come on, Beckett." He nudges her shoulder. "I wanna see."

He stops her at the door to the apartment itself. She stares dumbly as he fumbles with the box he's still carrying and lifts something toward her. A bag she somehow hadn't noticed, and she can't believe she left him to drag everything up to the third floor.

"You have to . . ." He's blushing and suddenly silent. Faltering for the first time, and she only realizes after the fact that he's been keeping her moving. That his chatter and solid presence, climbing the stairs behind her, have gotten her this far, and she's not sure what'll become of them now. If they might stand in the hallway forever.

But she finds her voice and it sounds less strange than she would have thought. Excited. Eager like sparks when she reaches for it and their fingers brush. "For me?"

"For you. For the place, actually." He's smiling wide now. His feet under him again, though his cheeks are still a little pink and she can see how hard he has to swallow to make the words come. "You have to carry it through the door, though. It's no good, otherwise."

And she does. She puts her shoulder into it, and the hollow echo of the creaking hinges isn't as bad as she remembers. The windows are high and dusk falls on the wood floors in tall, inviting stretches of pale violet. She drops the duffel and steps inside, long strides carrying her almost to the center of the room.

"Wow! Beckett, this is . . . "

She turns at the sound of his voice, liking the way it rings off hardwood and brick and concrete. She turns a full circle until she comes around again to the smile that must look at lot like her own. The bag is a welcome weight swinging at her side and she feels the first tingle of excitement. Of real possibility when she looks around. _Potential,_ and it feels perfect that he's here. That he's setting down a box with a jumble of odds and ends she grew up with and running his hand along the cool surface of the pristine kitchen counter.

It feels perfect until she flicks a light switch and nothing happens.

* * *

 

"It's not a disaster." He gives her a sharp look even though she hasn't said anything. She's thinking it, of course. What else could she _possibly_ be thinking as the sun sinks lower and lower and shadows win out over light that seemed lovely a minute ago. He crosses into the kitchen. To the stovetop on some terrible instinct and gives one of the knobs a vicious twist. Nothing happens. He grits his teeth, a silent curse hovering in the air, but he says it again. "It's _not,_ Beckett."

"Not a disaster." She drops to the floor. A cross-legged heap. It's a childish gesture. The place is semi-furnished, and there's a perfectly good, perfectly hideous couch not six feet away. But she drops to the floor, and she's almost laughing. Almost. She lifts her hands. "Then what is it, Castle?"

He comes around the counter, stripping off his coat like he's staying. Like they can _possibly_ stay, and it's not a disaster. "It's an obstacle. A _minor_ obstacle." He slides down the wall, landing next to her with his legs stretched out. He's all in shadow from her perspective, and she must be from his. "Ok, maybe a big obstacle."

"Huge." She laces her fingers behind her neck, falling over her own knees until everything burns. Her spine and the back of her thighs, all of it burning until she feels the weight of his palm on her shoulder blade.

"What do you want to do?" he asks softly.

There's so much hanging from the simple words. All he wants to offer. The narrow confines of what she feels like she can accept when he's done so much already. The fragile uncertainty of what they are to each other. What they're supposed to be, after everything.

That's what lifts her head. It's what decides her and makes her voice ring out, sudden, clear and definite. "I want to have dinner with you. Right here."

He smiles, his fingers trailing through the ends of her hair in a way that makes them both shiver. "Then that's what we'll do. Dinner. Right here."

* * *

 

He's not crazy about leaving her. She's not crazy about sending him out yet again, but it makes a kind of sense. Divide and conquer, and she could _definitely_ stand to take out some of her rage on ConEd. So that's the plan. She'll stay and he'll go, except . . . _Except . . ._

"Castle, wait!" She snatches her coat up from the corner and fumbles out her wallet. "Here." She shoves all the cash she has into his hand. He does his level best not to look at her like she's crazy. His level best isn't very good. "Shut up and go."

"Shutting up." He palms the keys from the counter. From the relative safety of the doorway he turns back. "Even though I didn't say anything." He ducks, like she might throw something at him. If she owned anything at all, she might, but she laughs instead. He laughs, too. Nods, like it's what he was waiting for and backs through the door. "Going."

She lowers herself to the floor again, stubborn in some stupid way about the couch. About comfort until _something_ goes right for her in this place.

She's on hold for roughly ever. She loses count of how many times the robotic voice has given her a list of _hang-up-and-call . . ._ scenarios for steam on Manhattan streets, downed power lines, and the smell of gas. She's just starting to worry that he'll make it back before she actually talks to a human being—that the rest of the evening will take place to a phone tree soundtrack in English and Spanish—when she hears the heavy, coveted _clunk_ of the line coming off hold.

She raps out the particulars, account number, old address and new. Mother's maiden name and every bit of nonsense they can think to ask for down to confirmation codes she'd had the foresight to scrawl down _and_ print out. She waits as patiently as she can, and the sound of fingers flying over keys on the other end of the line is something close to soothing.

_"Everything is on schedule, ma'am."_ The man's voice is bland. Not unpleasant, other than the fact that everything is most definitely _not_ on schedule, but he goes on. "In the event that your service has not been established by two hours past the time indicated . . ."

"It's _twelve_ hours past the time indicated." She slaps the paper propped on her knees as though he can see. As though it will make a difference. "6:00 am, April 1."

The penny drops hard. Something about the words out loud. In her mouth and filling her ears, and then there's too much happening at once. Noise everywhere. Inside her head and out and the door is opening. He's calling out, then shushing himself when he realizes she's still on the phone.

_"Yes, ma'am,"_ says the voice on the other end of the phone. It's inching closer to unpleasant now, but she can hardly hear with the speaker pressed to her shoulder. _"6:00 am tomorrow. If by 8:00 am your service is still not active . . ."_

"Tomorrow. Yeah. Sorry." She jams her finger down on the button, turning the phone off entirely.

"Beckett?" He sets everything down now. Moves toward her, not quite alarmed, but getting there. "Did that not . . . go well?"

"It's your birthday." She stares at him, horrified. "Goddamn it, Castle. It's your _birthday._ "

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I knew when I started that Castle's birthday occurred in the week following Boom! And I knew I wanted to write that in. But I did not want to write this ENDLESS THING. But here it is. Agggggh. Last chapter tomorrow or I choose one of the many available tall building my fair city has to offer from which to throw myself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He wants to laugh. Badly, because it's funny. It's absurd that she's standing in the middle of a dark, all-but-bare apartment, with nothing but rental furniture and cheap, smoky candles to call her own, worrying that she didn't get him anything for his birthday. It's ridiculous, but he knows she doesn't think so, and he's careful. He doesn't laugh."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And this is the REAL end. Thanks for your patience and support.

 

 

He's not sure what to do. _It's not. Not till tomorrow._ The words rise and up and fall away. It's the wrong thing to say. A technicality. A childish retort. And definitely the wrong thing.

"Come on." He holds his hand out to her, but she won't budge. He's not even sure she hears him, but he stands his ground. "Beckett, come on. Before the food gets cold."

That rouses her. Startles her enough that she looks up. "Food?"

"Food," he repeats, drawing it out to slow, loud English. Needling her, because he'd rather get kicked than see her looking like this. Overwhelmed. Defeated. "Dinner. You and me. Here." He looks up at the ceiling like he doesn't trust it. "Before there's . . . a plague of locusts or the walls start weeping blood or something."

She moves. She doesn't laugh, but at least she moves. She takes his hand and lets him pull her up, drawing away almost immediately. Small and into herself like she's mortified and it's _stupid._ It's so _stupid_ , but an awkward silence falls and he can't break through.

They work well together, like always. Mechanically, at the moment, and they give each other wide berth, but they've worked well together from the very beginning. He holds on to it. Truth he keeps under his tongue as he touches the tip of the fireplace lighter he'd picked up along with everything else to the wicks of tea lights and thick-glassed bodega candles, better than a dozen by the time he's done. She takes them wordlessly from his hands and sets them around the open, empty space. A strategic pattern until there's a reasonable semblance of light, in one area, at least.

"That's the last of them," he says as she reaches for it. A lurid Virgin Mary that had seemed funny ten minutes ago.

Now it's just one more silent, leaden thing. Until she sets aside, a solid enough _thunk_ sounding out that he wonders if she chipped the base. "Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

"Say anything? Like what?" He stares at his shoes. Her toes, because she must have kicked off her shoes at some point, and they're closer than he'd realized. He doesn't dare look up. "I mean, I'm the king of the segue, but there's really no way to just . . drop that into conversation."

"I should've remembered." She shakes her head. "I feel like such an ass."

"You've had a thing or two on your mind, Beckett." He half looks up at her then. He risks it, and she's twisting her hands. Looking miserable. "What?"

"I didn't get you anything."

He wants to laugh. Badly, because it's funny. It's _absurd_ that she's standing in the middle of a dark, all-but-bare apartment, with nothing but rental furniture and cheap, smoky candles to call her own, worrying that she didn't get him anything for his birthday. It's ridiculous, but he knows she doesn't think so, and he's careful. He doesn't laugh.

"Dinner," he says, matter of fact, as he turns toward the counter. "You got me dinner."

He reaches for the nearest white container, eager to have his hands busy. Eager to be busy in general, but her fingers close around his wrist and he finds himself tugged the other way around. Tugged back to face her by strength that shouldn't be a surprise at this point, but it is. Everything about her is a surprise.

Especially the fact that she's kissing him.

Right now, the fact that she's up on her toes with her arms twined around his neck, administering the most thorough, _determined_ kiss he's ever received tops the list of things about her that surprise him.

"No." It's emphatic. She pulls her mouth from his, and he wonders where she could have possibly found breath for the word when there's no air left in the world, but she says it again. "No."

"No," he murmurs back, ready to agree to anything, because she's back to kissing him.

"Not for your birthday." She draws back again and he's not a fan. He's not a fan of that at _all_ because (a) she's not kissing him, and (b) she's giving him this terrified, _searching_ look. "Not because my life blew up."

"No." He gets it, then. He kisses her cheek. Her chin and her forehead. Anything that might pass for innocent. "Just because."

"Yeah." She sags against him. Leans into him, relieved, even though he can feel her heart hammering into his ribs as her arms come around him tight. "Have dinner with me," she says against his shoulder. "Just because."

* * *

 

It ends up somewhere on the romantic side of ridiculous. Mandatory candles and mismatched everything, but it's charming. Or maybe that's just everything. Maybe that's just them.

She slices the tape on the box he'd carried up and pulls out a table cloth. They each take an end and spread it over the big ottoman. She points out the scorch marks in the unmistakeable shape of an iron at one corner, then heads back to the box.

"Thanksgiving, 1985. I _really_ wanted to help. Mom pulled this out _every_ year and told that story."

"I lost a couple _really_ expensive sets of sheets when Alexis caught the ironing bug." He laughs as he sets out chopsticks and the well-worn plates she hands him. Bowls heaping with thankfully still-steaming food.

"Sheets?" She looks up from her rummaging.

"I figured towels were safe enough and she just . . . extrapolated her way through the linen closet." He wanders back her way. "Glasses? Oh. God. Please tell me there's a wine opener in there."

A strange look crosses her face and he wants to kick himself. Her dad. The box is from her dad's and he might not . . .

"Here." She holds it up frowning. "But I didn't see . . ." She looks at the counter, empty of everything except neatly stacked white cardboard now, and back at him, confused.

"Um. The bag." It's on the floor at her feet. He nudges it with his toe. He clears his throat, hoping against hope he's not about to launch them into a new and exciting phase of _awkward_. "There's . . . well you have to have them. A new house. You have to."

She crouches, tugging the bit of ribbon holding the handles together and reaching inside. "Bread," she says as she lifts out a seed-studded loaf roughly the size of of a medieval shield. It's possibly a little over the top. The sidelong look she gives him says it might be. "That this house may never know hunger." She reaches in again, blind this time, her eyes still on him. "Salt?"

"That life may always have flavor." He nods as she reaches up, looking pleased with herself, and sets the jointed wooden salt cellar on the counter. "I've spoiled the wine, but that's joy and prosperity." She hands the bottle to him with a smile, pushing to her feet, but he stops her. He points to the bag, more awkward than ever. "There's . . . there's one more thing."

She stoops again and reaches in, hefting the little satin pouch warily, but she's too curious to really make him squirm. Too little-girl eager to know. She tugs at the tassel and her eyes go wide as the little jade figure slips out. Her breath catches and his does, too. He falls in love with it all over again. He falls in love with the way it rests in her palm.

"The trunk and tusks, they . . ."

"They curve up"—she traces the line with one finger. One caress on the cool flat of its head—"to hold the luck of the house." She lifts her palm, bringing the elephant eye to eye with her. "He's beautiful, Castle. Thank you. _Thank you_."

* * *

 

They tug the cushions off the ugly couch to eat on the floor. It's easier that way, with everything spread out on the ottoman. She pulls stories from him. A strange reversal and she's crafty about it. She has him talking. Worrying long after the fact what unwitting confession has smiling. What bit of information he's let slip that has her looking like she's filing things away.

"So you and Martha celebrate the day before." She grabs a piece of spicy beef. "Do you always do Chinese?"

The question is casual, like the fact is already established, and he falls for it. He's seen her do it a hundred times in the box and he falls for it.

"Not always. But this year _. . ."_ He trails off, his eyes going wide as he realizes what he's just copped to. "It's . . . I don't mind. I . . . when Alexis was three, I ate nothing but chicken nuggets for four months, and . . . it's your favorite," he finishes lamely. "I know it's your favorite."

"I'm not three, Castle." She gives him a look of disdain, followed by an absolutely unnecessary, one-hundred percent _calculated_ moan of pleasure as she pops the last half potsticker in her mouth. "I enjoy other things besides Chinese."

He has the perfect comeback. He's sure he has it somewhere, and it has to do with what things, exactly, she might enjoy, but he's tongue-tied and ten steps behind. Exactly where she wants him, apparently.

"So why the day before?" She thinks about it. "Alexis. She gets the actual day." Another statement of fact that she's breezing past en route to the next item in her agenda. She's wrong, though. In this one case, she happens to be wrong.

"Not Alexis," he cuts in. She looks flummoxed briefly. Annoyed. It delights him inordinately. "It goes back way farther than Alexis."

He leaves it at that. He makes her lean in. He makes her _ask,_ not tell, and his heart beats harder when he sees it doesn't make a blind bit of difference. When he sees how eager she is and knows that she'll laugh just as hard and sigh and bat at him in all the right places, because she wants to _know,_ just like he does, and it doesn't matter who's asking or telling. Each of them just wants to know the other. It's such a simple thing. Such a stupid, _simple_ thing, but his throat feels thick.

"Well?" She knocks his shoulder. She brings him back to himself with an impatient tug at his sleeve. "There's obviously a story there, Castle."

"Oh, there is, Detective." He slips his fingers through hers and thinks what a pretty picture it makes. Candlelight flickering over the comfortable little knot. "A Martha Rodgers adventure."

"So tell me." She pokes him hard in the ribs and worms her way under his arm. "Tell me a story."

* * *

 

He's not sure if she kisses him or he kisses her. He's not sure if he finished the story, or if the sight of her head thrown back as she laughed, long and loud, was just too much and that explains the state they're in.

They're wedged between the ugly couch and the ottoman, sideways from their starting position, and he honestly can't tell whose limbs are whose. She still has all her clothes on. He still has all his, and he doesn't know how that's possible given the way his head is spinning and the blood is pounding hard in every cell of his body. She shifts against him and he thinks he might die, if not from the fact that there is absolutely way for her to move that isn't like a match to a fast-burning fuse, then quite possibly from the _noises_ she makes.

"Castle." That should do it. His name in her mouth. In his mouth courtesy of her hot, quick breath. That should absolutely be the end of him, if only it weren't for what comes next. "Castle. Alexis."

_"What?!"_ He pushes away from her, his arms going straight on instinct. His back hits the ottoman and something tumbles off, hitting him hard in the shoulder. He grabs it absently. One of the strange cowgirl juice glasses they'd been using for wine, but at least it's not a candle. At least he's not _literally_ on fire. "Alexis? _What?"_

"Your birthday." She says it through her teeth, like this terrible train of thought takes all her concentration. "You spend your birthday with Alexis."

"Beckett." He kisses her, brief and laughing. "I don't mean to criticize, but your sexy talk could use some work."

"Shut up," she says, but she's kissing him back. "You spend the day with your _daughter._ " She leans into the word and she's shimmying up his body to look him in the eye, and everything is _very_ confusing. "I'm guessing that means the _whole_ day. Sun up to sun down?"

"It's a school day, but yeah. Breakfast in bed." He groans, rolling on to his back. "And that means _early_ early . . ."

"And _that_ means you should probably go." She's serious about it. Her voice is anyway. The rest of her seems to have a conflict of interest. The rest of her seems to be climbing right on top of him. Kissing him like there's a law against it. "That's a shame."

"A shame," he repeats, pulling a groan from her as he hooks a calf around hers and fits her body even closer to his.

"Castle."

There's something a little desperate in it this time. Something a little terrified that a saner part of him sits up and takes notice of. Not right away, because that saner part seems to be somewhere across the room. In his coat pocket, maybe. Not with out a fight, because that saner part is no match for Kate Beckett pressed almost as close as it's possible for her to be. But the saner part sits up and takes notice. Eventually.

"I know," he says, easing her off to the side. "I should go." He props his head on his arm and takes her in, flushed and rumpled and more than a little frustrated. " _Such_ a shame."

* * *

 

They make quick work of cleaning up. They both seem to sense it's dangerous to linger, and he's proud that he lasts until he's actually in his coat—actually on the verge of going—before the question spills out.

"You're _sure_ you want to stay here?" He looks past her to the tea lights and bodega candles, still going strong.

"I'm sure, Castle." And she is, but there's a trace of regret in the stuttering way her breath comes and goes. "Ugly couch pulls out. Radiator heat. I'll be fine until morning."

"But you could be _better_ than fine at the loft." He wheedles a little. He has to.

"Not tonight," she says, but her hands creep up his body. They push his coat aside and smooth along his chest with the promise of nights to come. "I'm sorry I didn't get you anything for your birthday."

"You know you missed a _golden_ opportunity, right?" She gives him a quizzical look. "Your apartment just blew up. You could have had the _best_ birthday present just waiting. Like a pony or a racecar bed or a full range of really fun, really unsafe vintage toys from the '70s."

She frowns. "You realize you just killed a pony."

"A _fictional_ pony." He realizes it's not much of a defense. "I take your point."

"Well, think of something good and tell yourself I had it tucked away." She laughs as she says it, holding on hard to the doorframe. She's worn out and soft looking and beautiful and he really needs to go.

He looks at his watch and something strikes him. A whim from a months-ago sunrise spent watching the start of someone else's love story.

"There's still one thing you can give me." He closes the nonexistent distance between them. Tips his head forward so his lips are hardly a breath away from hers. "If you're interested."

"Interested?"

The murmur becomes part of the kiss as they drift together, and it's the hardest thing in the world to stop. The hardest thing in the world to leave it at that. A good-night kiss.

"There," he says, holding up his watch as it ticks over past midnight. "I got to kiss you while I was still young."

"Young?" She blinks at him, more tired than dazzled by the kiss, whatever he'd like to believe.

"Just something my mother once said." He kisses her one last time on the forehead. Chaste, if not entirely safe. "Goodnight, Kate."

"Mother?" she calls softly after him, a weary, lopsided smile on her face. "Your sexy talk could use some work, Castle."

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that's it for real. Thank you for sticking with it.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading. I'll try not to let the pace of updates lag. I have this outlined and a start on each of the next two chapters, but stories like this have a habit of opening up in the middle.


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